


What's in a Name?

by Zhie



Series: Bunniverse [16]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bunniverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 06:54:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11308050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: Atarinkë prefers the name Curufinwë.





	What's in a Name?

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:  
> B2MeM Challenge:(O67)  
> Sons of Feanor: Curufin and Nerdanel

It was the first time in many years that Nerdanel had vacationed at the house of her father instead of the vast lands that were kept by Finwe. Almost every year at about this time, plans would be made to bring the family to the manor in the midst of Finwë’s estate, but this time it was actually Fëanor who made the proposal that the family go to Tirion and visit Mahtan and his kin.

Nerdanel was fairly certain that it had something to do with the rumor that Fingolfin, Finarfin, and Findis were also planning to be at the manor with their families this year. She was not about to question the pleasant change in plans.

\---

“Ah, my grandsons,” said the red-haired bearded fellow who made his way from the house as soon as they rode up. “Welcome, welcome!” Mahtan pulled his daughter to him in a fierce embrace, kissed her upon the cheek, and grasped Fëanor’s arm in greeting. “My... how they have all grown.. and Maitimo, most of all!”

“It will not be long before he grows a beard to match yours, father, and then we may have trouble in telling the two of you apart!” said Nerdanel, simply giddy to be back in her homeland.

Briefly Fëanor snuck around to the side of them to give his eldest son a look of disbelief that any of his sons would ever grow any of the facial hair he thought to be terribly ugly. The third eldest snickered and turned it into a cough for his mother’s sake.

“You remember Makalaurë and Tyelkormo,” she continued, resting a hand upon each of their shoulders.

“Indeed, I do,” said Mahtan, shaking each of their hands in turn. “Have you brought your harp, Makalaurë?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps you shall play for your grandmother later. She did always love to hear you play.”

“Yes, sir,” came the obedient answer.

Mahtan turned his attention upon Celegorm. “I have recently purchased several new hounds. I thought a pheasant hunt in the morrow might be in order.”

The current middle-child beamed and nodded with a grin. “Yes, sir!”

Mahtan ruffled the fair hair, and was not given so much as a scowl, as was the case when most everyone else did so. “We leave at sunrise - best to get a good night sleep!”

“This is Carnistir.” Nerdanel had to prod the next child forward a bit. He was just at the cusp of manhood, still lanky and uncertain and had made the most complaints along the journey, so Nerdanel was cautious. She cleared her throat at the way he slouched and let his hair hang down in front of his face.

Mahtan rubbed his chin, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “I think we had the guest rooms arranged for Maitimo to have his own,” he mused, “But I suppose that he might be happier to share with Makalaurë.” The two eldest nodded their consent. “I know that you told me in your letter that we should have Tyelkormo share with the little one... Carnistir, do you mind a room of your own for your time here?”

There was a long pause while the dark-haired son who looked so much like his other grandfather studied everyone through the curtain of his hair, then said, “Sure.”

Both Fëanor and Nerdanel prompted with little stares and the synchronous clearing of their throats.

“Oh. Uhm. Yes, sir.”

Mahtan moved now to the youngest, whom he had heard of in letters but not met before. “It is nice to meet you,” said Mahtan extending his hand to the miniature version of Fëanor.

“This is Atarinkë--” began Nerdanel.

“Curufinwë,” he interrupted.

Nerdanel blushed. “Yes, well, I named him as Atarinkë--” she tried again.

“But I answer to Curufinwë,” insisted the young one. He did not whine, nor look angered -- in fact, he looked bored with the pleasantries. He took hold of Mahtan’s hand and grasped it firmly. “Pleased to meet you, grandfather.”

Now a bit cross, Nerdanel had her hands balled up into fists. “Excuse us, please,” she said, pulling the little one aside. “Atarinkë, that was quite rude, and you know it!”

The child looked off, pretending not to have heard.

“You have to the count of three to apologize, else I will spank you right here in front of your brothers!” she hissed.

Still, he stood, and sighed, and crossed his arms over his chest even as his mother counted and finally took him over her knee as promised. He did not so much as flinch as she struck him, stopping only when Fëanor approached.

“Nerdanel, what harm is there in calling him as he likes?” asked her husband.

She blinked in shock. “Here, he is Atarinkë.” Her voice was just short of a growl.

“Just let it be.” Fëanor shook his head. “It is not worth arguing about. Certainly, it is not worth discipline and embarrassment.” He put his hands upon the youngest’s shoulders.

Nerdanel looked down at the child, who was smirking, unseen to Fëanor. She shook her head, ashamed that such a scene was playing out in front of her father. “Fine,” she sighed in defeat, narrowing her eyes when Curufin stuck his tongue out at her.

She kicked a stone as her husband steered the child back to his brothers. “I hope the next one picks a name you hate,” she muttered as she followed them.


End file.
